Drink of This Inheritance
by Swii
Summary: Life after loss. Once you're down, there's no where to go but up. Ryou deals with life: moving to Domino, new romances, and catastrophe. By letting go of past grief, one can make room for future bliss. Seto/Ryou, Malik/Ryou. R&R.
1. Amat Victoria Curam

**Title:** Drink of this Inheritance  
**Author:** Swii  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh.  
**Pairing:** Seto/Ryou, Malik/Ryou. More?  
**Genre:** Romance/Angst, yet with not so much romance as angst.  
**Rating:** Overall maybe 16+, but I'd say this chapter is PG.  
**Warnings:** Character death, teenage angst, yaoi, AU. Bears no resemblance to canon, sorry. Summary and title are subject to change –I'm a flighty thing.  
**Summary:** Life after the death of loved ones. Ryou deals with grief on life's terms and learns that he has more to offer than he thought.

**Chapter One**

Ryou Bakura lived off the idea that people were inherently good and kind-hearted --that even the most evil, the most sinister amongst history behaved as they thought was just and right. All else could be explained by confusion, by carelessness, and by cowardice. He repeated this idea until he believed it, told himself that every slight done unto him was an innocent mistake. Looking back, he wonders if it was more cruel to have suffered under blind eyes than deliberate hands. Did he honestly matter so little to so many?

And striking upon this thought, Ryou would always recoil and return to what he knew.

The first day he moved to Domino, he had left behind old trauma for new chances and a scarcely decorated, poorly lit hotel room. His father had been communicating with friends from college and came across a job opening for a prestigious art and culture museum situated in Japan. Mr. Bakura came to get away from his past in London and for a promising job interview. What he didn't mention was how he was staking his career on a new location --one that did not bring back memories of his deceased wife and daughter around every street corner. If he managed to land the job, he would be the director of the entire archaeological research section of the museum, while still being able to work through the museum's Acquisitions Department on excavations in a separate post in Egypt. Ryou's father was one of the best in his field –well known, published, and had already obtained several grants for his research on found artifacts and their links to historical cultures. Ryou was very proud of his father and his accomplishments, and as a child, was incessant about sharing the latest adventure his father had with the few friends who offered up their rapt attention.

To be honest, Ryou knew that he had bad luck with relationships. He was rotten at reading people and had been socially awkward since preschool. He could hold on to very little. One, he knew that he was loved by his family. Two, when his mother and Amane died, the reason his father continued working was out of grief, not disregard. Three, he was all his father had left, and vice versa. But so long as they had each other, they could overcome the most recent crisis --that their family had been cleaved in two. Alone in the hotel room, in that new country, he felt shuttered away in his own small world stripped bare of the old comforts. He could only wait for his father to return, hoping against hope for another chance to know true friendship and bliss. It would be what his mother and sister would have wanted.

Ryou remembers that day and the following weeks like it had been yesterday; the feeling of being buried alive under insatiable dreams and wants until he knew no other sensations besides the emptiness of a wish unrecognized.

It was still crystal-clear: he had been sitting on the recently made bed watching Japanese news on a small box-like television set, wondering to himself how long it would take before the words would not sound quite so fast. He had just been about to flip off the channel when he heard the clicks of a key turning, and the quick crash of the door swinging inward. His dad practically charged in with stars in his eyes and a smile he had once only used around mother.

"You got the job?" Ryou asked, trying to exercise his Japanese.

"Better yet," his father began, closing the door, and moving close to Ryou. He held the silence for a few seconds, looking at his son's face the entire time to gauge the escalating suspense.

"_Well?_"

"They want me to start next week! Can you imagine? Back in Egypt in just another week," he exclaimed. The man laughed a single "HA" as if not believing it himself before collapsing back onto an empty bed.

"That's brilliant. I'm happy for you, dad."

"Thanks, Ryou, but now we have even more matters to take care of. Now that I'm part of the museum's board of directors, they hope I will also maintain a permanent residence here in Domino. We'll need to find a place to live." Mr. Bakura discreetly did not mention the accompanying fact; _we'll need to sell the old house_.

Ryou was still confused by his own feelings towards the big change. He didn't dare let out a breath he had unknowingly held lest the sigh should sound less like one of relief than despair. He hadn't counted on the job coming so quickly, or coming at all. Still, he had quickly grabbed some realty magazines at the city's train station when his dad had been busy hailing a cab. Ryou had gone through these journals repeatedly the entire day to ward off boredom, circling a few that caught his eye.

"How about an apartment, then? It's only the two of us and we don't need a big house," _like we did in England_, he thought, "with the money we save we could take more vacations back home or save it for something important later." Ryou held out the small pile to his father, who was already sitting up and beaming at him.

"You wouldn't mind living here, so far from what we're used to?"

"Of course not, dad, I'm already starting to feel right at home." It was a lie, of course, but Ryou was already content that his father had not disagreed or said anything like, "No, Ryou, let's buy a house just in case I get over my grief and remarry" or, "revisit London, are you mad?" It was one of Ryou's greatest fears at this point, besides the vengeful spirit from his "millennium ring," complete and utter social rejection, and tight spaces, that his father may indeed deal with his loss and move on –leaving Ryou behind. _Because he is all that I have left_. Ryou saw his dad as a fun-loving man whom looked much younger than what he actually was. Mr. Bakura kept his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he looked dashing in a suit and tie, which he always wore for special occasions, such as interviews, marriages, family reunions, school plays, and yes, funerals.

Ryou had resigned himself never to speak about this irrational fear because he never wanted his dad to know how much he fixated over one's wording, the choice of words, frivolous details, or these "grown-up" issues at all.

"That's my boy," his father said, taking off his glasses to tuck into his shirt pocket before flipping through each magazine –filled with pictures of apartments and the realtors selling them. Ryou didn't respond, choosing instead to turn off the TV and lie back onto his bed, willing his body to relax for the first time since he came to Japan.

Flash forward past the cold gray walls, dusty halls, and simplistic design of a cheap hotel and Ryou was finally living in a new city, in a new country, and a new breeding ground for trouble. The two of them had found an apartment with two bedrooms, a large living room, and a pleasant view. Ryou's father had looked at the large empty space of the living area with amazement, commenting on how they could easily entertain ten, no, fifteen guests. It had almost been half a year and not a single person had set foot in the place besides Ryou, his dad, and the agent who rented it to them. That was, so long as the spirit did not count. Since then, Ryou's father has been away on a promising dig for the entire time but Ryou had long since learned to manage on his own.

They had checked out of the hotel early on their second morning in Japan, each with a single suitcase of luggage. The sun was on their backs, casting long shadows on the black pavement in front of them as they waited for a taxi to take them on their quest. Something about being in a different world with only a single bag of possessions emboldened Ryou. Sadly for his adventurous streak, the search for an apartment ended at the very first establishment: a new building on one of the quieter streets in the city. Thus, the apartment complex that towered over the surrounding structures in all its glass, metal alloy, and reinforced concrete glory became a new home. Ryou had to admit that the tenement was a well thought out architectural triumph, not exactly art or a masterpiece, but still impressive nonetheless. Besides the accommodating prices, the apartment was also favorable for its western floor plan, which both of them were already used to. As their furniture arrived by truck, Ryou came to terms with how he would never live in his old home again. The house hadn't sold yet, there was simply no market for it, but it seemed equally impossible to live there again with the reminders of loss reverberating through the very wall. So Ryou tried his best to settle in, as his dad made return trips to the museum sorting out some details of the job. It didn't help that Ryou had a gut feeling that his father would have taken the first apartment regardless of the location, the architecture, the floor plan, or the price.

The sweaty movers spent a good few hours placing each piece of furniture wherever Ryou needed them to go. His father still needed to work out proper modes of transportation, delivery of supplies, and he had yet to pick out an excavation team. This left Ryou with the difficult task of making the clean white walls, dark wood floors, and glaringly bright windows look like home. For days, he opened up box after box of miscellaneous items: clothes, books, kitchenware and more. Once while he worked, he noticed that the room was bereft of any smells. Amane used to play with his mother's perfumes, and one day she spilled a bottle of her finest scents. They could never quite get the smell of ginger and nutmeg out of the room.

And so the first week had passed, with methodical order only broken by melancholy recollections. Four tall, black, antique bookshelves now housed a wealth of knowledge from politics to arts and humanity, from books on the Italian Renaissance to ones covering the Great Depression. They spanned tomes on the island of Australia to the life and death of Mozart and other great composers. There were ones that talked about the art of Da Vinci, Botticelli, Bellini, and Michelangelo. Collections of works by Alexandre Dumas, Nabokav, Nietzsche, Ovid, Plato, and Oscar Wildes. Several more were dissertations on the masters, and collections of their letters and sketches. On the coffee table sat Henry James and Rembrandt –between them lay Lewis Carroll. Stacked on top of the bookshelves were ones that boasted information on Ancient Egypt, hieroglyphics, and modern linguistics. While the windows were fitted with deep blue curtains, the kitchen was stocked with the family's heirloom: fine china, the refrigerator filled with an array of foods, the apartment was _still not a home_, and no amount of rearrangement would make it into one.

Ryou tried putting pictures all around the house, on all the nightstands and desks. In the extra room doubling as a study, Ryou stored his board games in a large wooden chest. It still didn't calm his fears of never belonging to these strange surroundings, let alone society. How else could he mask his thoughts? He made the beds, cooked and cleaned, registered himself for high school, bought textbooks and a uniform, and at the end of the day he still fell asleep with thoughts of "home." The idea itself was illusive and confounding. Unattainable and accepted.

Ryou eventually resigned himself to a city map and a Japanese-English dictionary for whenever his vocabulary was not as poetic as he wanted (or needed) it to be. He was bad enough at speaking to people, the added language barrier and stress of choosing his words would be an utter annoyance. The first weeks of school, Ryou had sworn never to speak a word lest someone laugh at him or worst yet –thought him a wretched, blundering oaf. He hated sparse language and how he only knew one wording for things in Japanese –the simplest form. He could have no subtleties of speech, no rhetoric, and no diction. Even in plain English he could have no guarantee that he wouldn't say something indelicate or just stupid. In Japanese? He could scarcely hazard a guess.

School offered more distractions than the apartment, though the first months were filled with self-conscious moments spanning the entire day –fretting about his intonation when he chose to speak or his strangely colored hair in comparison to the rest of his class. His blonde hair bordered on pristine snow, and he quickly learned the Japanese word for "albino" from all the questions he fielded from his peers. In school, the spirit cackled into his ear, whispering god-knows-what. He would never forget the chilling grip around his heart feeling the ancient soul's thirst for blood. His ring almost came alive the first day in school, dragging him along alien corridors until the spirit became still and silent without warning. Oh, Ryou still cringed at the memory of the giddiness that flooded his mind right afterwards, as if the phantom had discovered an all-important secret.

This occult spirit lived inside the millenium ring --an artifact Ryou's father bought for him from a peddlar while in Egypt three years ago. The Ring itself seemed at first to be a bulky piece of jewelry, but it was the voice Ryou heard that garnered his interest. He wore it around his neck and underneath his shirt, wondering if he was going mad from loneliness. But when at night he found himself talking to himself, it was a warmer thought that someone was listening. Someone who might be a sign of encouragement from his mother or Amane. And thus, no matter how terrified he was by the spirit, Ryou decided it would be more reasonable to fear what was real than what was speculation. Besides, the spirit of the Ring rarely spoke.

Besides the crawling pace of school, Ryou passed the first three weeks without a phone, television, or internet seeing as all he needed to communicate was a sheet of paper, a pencil, an envelope, and sufficient postage. He had no one else to talk to and nothing that he really cared for seeing. In a way, Ryou took a month to grieve his lost lifestyle and the absence of anyone at all before finally living again.

In this fashion, several more months slipped on by. His Japanese improved to the accuracy and speed of a native speaker of the language. Though his teachers had not originally agreed on the wisdom of his transfer, any instructor could now spew litanies of praise over Ryou Bakura's intellect and modest nature.

Ryou made an effort to befriend others, even if out of discomfort in being alone. One boy who especially liked games had been very kind to him –Yuugi Motou. He never knew if it was a lasting type of friendship but he hoped for it, truly. The two of them frequently chatted during lunch, but Yuugi already had a group of friends who cared for him a great deal. Despite never ostracizing or eschewing him outright, they didn't go out of their way to include him in anything either. In a way, it was hurtful but Ryou could never find a way to blame them. After all, they had each other first, and perhaps he was just not easily approachable, agreeable, or likable. It was a good gamble. In any case, Yuugi never looked terribly apologetic, so Ryou told himself to keep his expression mild, content, and accepting. Coming second was a fact of life. It was better than not having a place at all.

There was money wired to his bank account weekly, like clockwork, but Ryou found his first letter in his box (602) in March. He was addressed simply as "My Son" on a thick package of papers. Ryou took it gingerly out of his box, pressed it to his chest and vouched for running up the staircase instead of waiting for an elevator. He couldn't get home (for after the first month he had also resigned himself to calling the place "home") fast enough before tearing into his mail. Ryou spilled the contents out onto the dinner table. There was a blank leather-bound journal inside and a letter. His father questioned him about the environment in school, if he made friends, if his grades were all right, and even if he was making sure to eat properly.

Ryou was almost to the end before reading something that caused a little piece of him to shrivel up and die.

_ Ryou, I know you might not like it but I want you to try to understand. I met someone here in Egypt. A great woman by the name of Natalie…._

He couldn't hold back soft whimpers. A shuddering breath.

_ Now, I don't want you to think that I don't remember your mother. She and Amane are in my heart every single day. But I think it might be good for you to have a mother figure around._

Ryou shook his head and squinted to stop the tears from coming at least. I had a mother figure, dad. I don't need another one, he thought.

_ We're almost done the analytical work at the excavation sites. You should have seen the artifacts we found! There was treasure everywhere. I am sorry that I've become so busy as to neglect you son. Please, keep writing to me even if I'm slow to respond. I found a journal that should suit your tastes. You should have enough money to also buy a cellphone now. Most teenagers have one. I want you to know that it wouldn't be a betrayal to start reaching out in your life. I'll be back in just a month, son. I want you to meet Natalie, the person I found once I started reaching out in mine. She's interested in meeting you too. I love you, Ryou._

He had waited four months just for a definitive answer on if his father was healed enough to move on, and Ryou wasn't happy with his answer. He had been right though; his father was resilient and capable of recovering. He tried telling himself that Dad was right; he didn't mind this new change. The letter he held in his hands felt more like another loss.

How did he know deep down that something like this would occur? He wasn't supposed to be so clever or so clairvoyant. To be so suspicious of the people left around him. Ah, but there were so few left! Could he help but guard hid father? The remnants of the old way of life. Every doubt he ever had about the future seemed to be coming true. His father didn't wait for him before charging on without him. Ryou never wanted for the bad truths, really, but they had a habit of seeking him out and confronting him. His apartment was no longer a comfort, the rooms that he meticulously picked up after meant little to him. Now, there was not even a homey smell, no warmth, no family, and no place he wanted to call his own. Ryou didn't eat that night, or the morning after, he was so caught up in the past and all the times he tried to hide how deeply grief had affected him. Losing his mother, who was his closest confidant, and Amane, who never deserved tragedy, well, it had dredged out the floor beneath his feet. He was left needy and unwhole. His father...his father was like the roof over his head. He wondered if he could realistically be termed an orphan. Living in Domino was like a slow sinking, abandoned to a busy world. He was lost, he was lost, and all the while drowning.

Ryou couldn't sleep through that night either; the mysterious soul living within his millennium ring mocked him through all hours of the dark in words of a foreign tongue. He sobbed quietly at the storm of thoughts and emotions resurfacing like an old wound picked afresh by his father's letter. And the spirit...it didn't take skill in language to comprehend the pity and loathing behind the words. Pity. It anguished him that a bodiless entity could dredge up pity and scorn for him. Ryou listened to the husky whispers, a welcome poison in order not to think of all the voices he would never hear again. Somehow, he understood every word, every syllable –he often called himself the same things.

_ You poor, pathetic fool._

* * *

**A/N:** _Edited 8/12/09._ New fanfiction yet again, I'm not sure how it came to me and I'm not sure why I'm even back into this fandom. Things to keep in mind: this series won't follow canon at all (like how I'm making Ryou British), so I'm going to be calling it an AU. Chapters will most likely not be beta-read. If there is anything grievous, please point it out to me. Feel free to ask questions; this will most likely get me thinking as well. Also, stylistically: too dry? Too awful in general? What about pacing? Is it too angsty? Because god knows I hate wangst, and angst for no good reason.

Hopefully the actual chapters will improve. I won't be adding the heading for every chapter unless the rating changes.


	2. Bismallah! Let Me Go

This chapter is rated PG.

**Chapter Two**

It seemed, as the days marched by and the clouds forever traveled overhead, that life had changed briefly. The cause was surely in the letter but the feeling dominated the air. Domino was a city without ties to suburbanities or community factions, and it seemed this fact allowed it to remain forever on the cutting edge. A city that was doomed to be populated by strangers living five feet from one another. Domino was so unlike the Surrey that Ryou had known all his life –there existed a fundamental difference between the two states. A schism in city governments. For the first time, the weather no longer impacted his lifestyle or the things he would do each day. There was no style to uphold. Here in the city of Domino, Ryou experienced the overwhelming flavor of independence and absence. It seemed as if Ryou had finally marinated long enough for the city streets and Japanese billboards to feel like second nature.

He woke one day to sunlight sifting through his hair and the blinds playing "Red Light Green Light" with the morning. The storm last night was fading from his mind, and Ryou felt the passing of a single moment where it suddenly became clear that winter had finally passed into spring. He shed his grief like a butterfly sheds its cocoon and shuddered at the bareness it had left him. Lying in bed watching shadows succumb to sunlight, Ryou surmised his days off would be influential.

He skipped breakfast for a walk. Out on the streets, Ryou endeavored to enjoy himself for a day before the feeling escaped him. Just making it down the stairs and out on the street walking on a new street still carried with it traces of the unfamiliar. He promised himself that each day of spring break would be spent letting go, so that his father might see him refreshed and ready (for what remained unclear). It was the least he could do in return for the weekly deposits of money into his account, and the apartment that had been entirely trusted in his care. Ryou's father was an archaeologist, and one of the best, at that. It spelled traveling, and traveling meant long periods without seeing his father face to face. On the last letter Ryou he received, he had noticed an office number printed onto the letterhead and called the local cable service immediately for service installation. Looking back, Ryou found it embarrassing how he would have went without a phone unless it meant he could not speak to his father.

His father who had subtly betrayed him, of course. No, no. His father who was more resilient than he.

In this fashion of reveries, Ryou soon found his way under the shade of tall oaks and maples at the Manashita Park. He had once cut-through the park hoping for a short cut to school, but instead wound up in an unknown part of town –dazed and faintly ashamed of himself. It had been only the inkling of foresight (which had insisted he explore the town only on the weekends) that saved him from absence on a school day. This day was sunny, so Ryou decided to emerge from the trees onto the mall. It was through this mall that several brick paths ran across, leading a person from place to place. Further along, the mall transformed into a cherry tree esplanade, now in full bloom. Ginkgo and dogwood trees –and the odd row of tulips or lilies– densely populated the next few acres. From the sixth floor of the apartment, Ryou could only ever glimpse the tops of the trees and trace the pathways on a windowpane. Still, the park was within a short walking distance, and Ryou had newfound appreciation of this knowledge.

Without hesitation, Ryou sped towards the esplanade and sat down under the first cherry tree in the row. Much to his surprise, footsteps sounded behind him barely after he shut his eyes to relax.

"Bakura?" Yuugi's voice asked.

"Hmm?" Ryou answered back, inwardly unwilling to turn around, let alone get up to greet his classmate a good morning. In fact, Ryou was faintly annoyed to have to open his eyes. Despite his demure state, Ryou was inclined to stand, and did so out of politeness.

"It's nice seeing you," Yuugi continued. "I mean, what a surprise! You wouldn't have plans for the break, would you?"

"I'm afraid not," Ryou replied slowly. He fretted over how his syllables felt slightly longer than Yuugi's lilting speech. "Do you need anything?"

"Oh, no. I was just heading to the arcade with Jounouchi, Anzu, and Honda," Yuugi answered. He beamed proudly before realizing his rudeness. "Would you like to come?"

Not one to inconvenience others, Ryou declined Yuugi's invitation, having understood that many students had only extended play dates out of pity or politeness. Strangely, Yuugi appeared genuinely upset by his answer. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I am. I think I'd like to spend some time in the park, today."

Yuugi bit his lip. "Well, if you are planning on staying until noon, I think I could bring the group here for a picnic lunch. That would be nice, I think."

"Sure, Yuugi."

"We could bring the lunch. Do you have a quilt, Bakura?" Yuugi said.

"A checkered one, yes. Sounds good. We'll meet later than?" Ryou inquired.

"Oh, yes. See you, Bakura." Yuugi answered awkwardly. Neither had often seen the other outside of school.

"Goodbye," Ryou said definitively.

"Bye," Yuugi parroted back, his hand waved a slight arc towards Ryou before he set off across the mall.

Left alone again, Ryou grimly wondered if he should return to his apartment and fetch the quilt, or whether he should stay and analyze the probability that Yuugi would actually come. Defeated by optimism, Ryou started back towards his home. A lonely little apartment with a nice view for a consolation somehow qualified as a home after five months in it.

He ventured back to the park an hour later after finding a picnic basket in addition to the old quilt stored in the small space presented as a "linen closet." Ryou had made three sandwiches in case anyone should become hungry after finishing whatever Yuugi would bring. Almost as an afterthought, Ryou added in a few bottles of water and handful of caramel candies from the trifle bowl kept on the coffee table. It was an old glass bowl, part of an entertaining dish set, and one he kept around as a memento. Ryou had folded the quilt and tucked it under the basket handles before leaving his apartment for the second time that day –surely a new record.

The park was livelier around noon, and Ryou was unwillingly to inhabit any crowded spaces. Luckily, a patch was deserted on the East side of the park, and Ryou headed over to that corner almost happily. Albeit a rare occurrence, Ryou looked forward to a day spent with friends rather than alone. It would probably help him readjust to life after his father returned. At the moment, he was far too independent even for never using any of it. Perhaps, Ryou pondered as he laid out the quilt, living alone would hinder his ability to reach back out again. Being caught between two worlds might be what made welcoming back his father such an anxious ordeal. It was plausible, if not wholly true. It was embarrassing not to have anything to show for the half a year spent in Japan. On the other hand, it could simply be the length of time without seeing his dad that made Ryou so unbalanced. If that were the case, Ryou deduced, then it would create several more issues concerning why his butterflies ate through the lining of his stomach, rather than simply send him tinglings of joy.

Ryou rested on the quilt, first by sitting idly. He wished, in such a tiny little voice, that he had brought a book.

As the sun moved noticeably westward, Ryou gave up on waiting and helped himself to a sandwich.

He nervously glanced around at the many people walking through. Company men on their cell phones, joggers, mothers and their infants, and the old teenage couple sharing ice cream at a park bench.

He wondered if anyone looked at him. What would they see? An ashen-faced boy with white hair, like an old grandfather, down to his shoulder blades. His worn striped-blue shirt that reminded him of the navy. Perhaps they would just note the absence of anyone around him, that stage-like accessory of a basket, and the tomato-red checkers of the quilt he sat on.

Another hour later, he lay down and slept, curled on his side. Somewhere between these two points, Ryou had come to terms with the fact that Yuugi would simply be unable to show up. It could have been a group decision to have pizza instead, or something could have come up. Pizza was now a catching fad, even giving the Western hamburger joints a run for their money.

Whatever it was, it was far more important than a simple picnic. He should have known that such a nostalgic idea would have been rejected by Yuugi's friends –if not by Mazaki, then certainly by Katsuya or Honda. Ryou unconsciously tapped his fingers on his chest, right above the millennium ring. He had taken to wearing the golden artifact underneath his shirt since it remained surprisingly warm over his heart.

"_Acceptance, yet again_," the spirit whispered. Ryou nodded along; dark magic or supernatural energies slowly enabled a method of comprehension between the two languages. The artifact's words now reverberated in his mind. Ryou understood the spirit's observation. Since his mother's and his sister's deaths, he had faced each tremendous change with gloomy acceptance and fading resolve.

"_You do not shed grief with only acceptance_," the painfully honest voice continued. Ryou cringed, thinking of how eager he had been in the morning for this day to unfold. The dark spirit was correct though –Ryou was bitterly reminded of the Kübler-Ross model. Of the five stages of grief, Ryou had only experienced acceptance and depression after mother and Amane's deaths. There never was a reason for more fuss since nothing had ever hurt him as much, or so he told himself.

"_Acceptance is hardly a reaction. The way you use it, host, is even worse –a form of repression. You stopped at acknowledgement and buried the rest. You still grieve, which is fine, host, but do not hold the world to your pace, or expect that your father will grieve with you. You are alive, are you not? And you cannot remain weak_," the spirit poked.

Ryou stood up and dusted his jeans of the invisible residue from the quilt, eager to use the patting sounds to block out the spirit's provocations. He lifted the quilt from under the basket and folded it neatly before carrying all of his picnic supplies back across the street to the apartment. All the way back he glanced around him franticly, afraid a part of him was painfully exposed. Didn't anyone else see it? Ryou attracted odd glances but it seemed to be the usual looks at his pale hair, and a few directed at his picnic basket and bright quilt --just as he thought. Ryou could only repeat, "Shut up" to the spirit in the ring who laughed at him for who he truly was.

Safe in the sanctum and prison of the apartment, Ryou slipped off his sneakers and placed his picnic items in their respective places. The answering machine had been flashing a red light at him as a greeting. Ryou sat down and pressed the button for messages to be replayed as soon as he made sure the dark spirit had had his fill of speaking for the day.

_Wednesday April Fourth. You have. One. Message. Twelve Thirty-Six._

The machine beeped as it looped to the start of the message.

_Uh, hello, Ryou?_

His father's voice. Ryou's breath hitched.

_I bet you're at school right now, so I'm sorry I have to tell you this in a message. I can't make it up there this week, and probably not for a long time, either. Um, I got transferred from the dig at the Valley of the Kings to the local chapter in Luxor. It means I'll soon make it up to the Cairo branch, and from there I could find myself on the director's board for the museum. Problem is I have to leave now if I want the job. Sorry about the short notice, Ryou. Um, you take care now, okay? Yeah. Bye._

His hands tightened on the armrests, dreading the second beep that signaled the end of the message.

_End Message._

It began to slowly dawn on Ryou that in the hours he passed alone in the park, he had lost more than time or company. As he replayed the message in his head, he realized that he had lost all contact with his father. There was no longer any address to mail him by, and no phone number to dial in the moments where Ryou doubted he even had a voice.

God, how awfully Yuugi had treated him! Had Ryou simply been realistic, he would have stayed within the narrow confines of his comfort zone and read the DSM-IV until his brain went numb or until he feel asleep. Now…now Ryou was filled with regret and desperation. Now his efforts to change would be all for naught. He had traded in a day at the park for months without speaking to his father.

The blanket of grief returned, thicker than ever. With a cry, Ryou leaped out of his seat and shoved the phone off of the stand. He sobbed and he wailed, banging his fists on the desk and shaking his head. For all his reaction to his father's change of heart, not one tear made it down his cheek, though they gathered and blurred his vision. Ryou's chest heaved more dry sobs that slowly dissolved into wispy sighs, sniffs, and hiccups. Through the pandemonium, the red light on the answering machine dimmed and the message was deleted. Ryou gathered his sore hands to his chest and retreated to his bedroom. He shuddered and his skin turned clammy when he felt the spirit's satisfaction at his loss of control.

"_That's better, host_."

The next morning, Ryou stayed in bed until griminess forced him to take a shower, and hunger forced him to eat. Dutifully, Ryou tidied up the study and set the phone in its proper place on the desktop. Once done, the aforementioned machine stared up at him. At a deadlock with the device, Ryou caved and decided that no harm would be done in calling his dad's office again. Perhaps he was overreacting, and his father's colleagues would point him in the right direction. Ryou tried not to remember how it was the same optimism that led him away from the apartment in the first place. Ironic how if Ryou hadn't cared to innervate his lifestyle for his father's arrival that he would have been able to speak with the man, yet it was his consideration that doomed him.

Ryou picked up the receiver and dialed the digits that he knew by heart, drumming his fingers at the answer tone.

With each second of silence, Ryou's heart sped. Finally, he got the operator and a message that the number had been disconnected. How could there be any mistake?

Ryou held his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt the onslaught of a migraine from having to wonder why the office number would be down. There was too much to consider and each possibility was grayer and more morbid than the next. His breakfast made him feel like deadweight, and subsequently Ryou lost all appetite for lunch or dinner. He sat for an hour in the study, staring at his Monster World RPG and all the knick-knacks placed on his desk.

Ryou was quickly growing tired of his cycles of hope, failure, and acceptance. Still, he had one last plan to try. Ryou wandered to the kitchen and removed a call-list from his refrigerator door. The second number was the number for the curator of the Egypt Exhibit at Domino's National Museum. With this list in hand, Ryou returned to the study to make one last phone call.

"_Hello, you've reached the Domino National Museum, Egypt Wing. This is the curator, Isis Ishtar speaking. May I help you?_"

"Ah, good afternoon. Or morning. Or, rather noon, if that's more accurate," Ryou greeted –not-so-visibly flustered to the lady on the other side. "My name is Ryou Bakura. I think my father Mr. Bakura got a job at the museum five months ago? I'm sorry, but I need to find a way to contact him. I've been talking with him from his office at the excavation, but yesterday he told me that he was moved to…Luxor? He told me he was working his way up into the board, but he forgot to tell me his new phone number. Um, would you be able to help me contact him, or point me to someone who could?"

Isis opened her mouth to speak –the sound was loud against the silence. Next, Ryou heard her stop just before her first syllable and then sigh. "_Ryou, is it_?" she said, "_Your father did come in for an interview but…._"

"But?"

"_Unfortunately, he didn't get the job. There is no Luxor chapter or excavation at the moment_."

Ryou's eyes widened and his hand trembled, jostling the receiver towards and away from his mouth variably.

"Oh."

"_I'm sorry_," Isis said.

"Yeah. Thank you. Bye."

Ryou hung up as if the phone were a disease-ridden thing, digesting the new information and how he would have to change his life accordingly. He gulped for breath wondering at which point his father's words turned from fact to fiction. For once, acceptance was the farthest thing from his mind. He extinguished whatever spark of optimism remained in his heart with great care. Once more, the earth shook beneath his feet and spun him until he couldn't see his way out from the great well he had lived in for nearly half a year now. Ryou wavered between denial and depression, bargaining and anger. In one instant, the familiarity with the city dissipated and the whitewashed rooms of the apartment closed in on him –more like a cage than ever before.

* * *

**A/N:** _Edited 8/12/09_. Hooray, the plot really starts moving from here. I wrote this chapter in two sit-downs, with only the first part being edited. Please help me correct any potential typos or other grammatical and writing taboos. In fact, if someone wants to beta-read for me, that would be fantastic.

I'm assuming most everyone is smart enough to realize that Yami Bakura isn't really speaking out loud when the dialogue is italicized. I hope I don't give up on this since I have so many neat ideas for this fic. Bakura's story will come out in the future. Things will (hopefully) pick-up. Now that I look back on it, this chapter could really be combined with the previous chapter since they are both exposition. Also, I edited the first chapter for those who are confused by the timeline of the events.

Minimal research is done for this fic, so bear with me on that. If anyone is a docent or knows someone who is in on the whole "museum" thing, then feel free to point out errors in how I portray them.


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